My Mother's Hands

My mother's hands are beautiful to me.
I see loveliness in them that others may not see.
The skin covering them is so very thin
That it's unable to conceal the veins within.
The loose skin that's folded into wrinkles is so fine,
That it reminds me of desert sand blown line upon line.
For years, the skin was work-worn, calloused, dry, and chapped;
Now, it's like that of babies she once held while they napped.

My mother's hands are beatuiful to me.
I see loveliness in them that others may not see.
I remember how they soothed my feverish brow,
And how they often "showed me how."
I recall how her hands always found work to do,
Seldom being idle these 86 years through.
They stored hay into the barn loft many a day,
And fashioned feed sacks into clothes just right for play.

My mother's hands are beautiful to me.
I see loveliness in them that others may not see.
I am awed by all her skillful hands have done--
How they've worked constantly from sun to sun.
I'm grateful for all they've done--so much, much, much!
I'm comforted by the memories of their gentle touch.
I'm also thankful for the love her hands have shown
As, through the years, they've cooked and washed and soothed and sewn.

(C) December 3, 2002, by Johnnie Ann Burgess Gaskill

Note: Mother is now age 93 and, sadly, no longer knows any of us who love her dearly. But we remember her! And the remembering makes us cherish her all the more and increases our gratitude for her life and the wonderful example she set for us.